


Dancing Mambo

by ChocoChipBiscuit



Series: Jinx [8]
Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 3
Genre: Dancing, F/M, Fallout Kink Meme, Father-Daughter Relationship, Gen, Kink Meme, Male-Female Friendship, Romantic Friendship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-16
Updated: 2014-03-16
Packaged: 2018-01-15 23:39:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1323550
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChocoChipBiscuit/pseuds/ChocoChipBiscuit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>F!LW dances through her roles and relationships with her father, her friend, and her companion.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dancing Mambo

**Author's Note:**

> Author's notes are [here](http://cchipbiscuit.livejournal.com/3700.html).

**1)** **Child**

_“Papa loves mambo_  
 _(Papa loves mambo)…”_

The prewar song fills the small medical office as his little Jennifer—Jennifer Kingston, the name far too big for one so small, but he is confident she’ll grow into it—stands on his feet, his steps guiding hers as he dances her around the floor. He smoothly navigates the desk, twirls in place, and then does the funny little hip-shake that makes Jennifer giggle and made Catherine laugh…

“ _Mama loves mambo_  
 _(Mama loves mambo)…”_  

“You know, this was your mother’s favorite song,” James says softly, squeezing his daughter’s hands. She stares up at him, pale eyes wide and shining with delight as she asks “Mama?”

“Yes,” he confirms, gently steering her off his feet and into a twirl. “We would dance to it at night, after we finished our projects.” Before falling into each other’s arms, flush with dancing and warm with music, kissing each other and madly in love… odds are good that little Jennifer was conceived during this song. “We also danced to this song when she was pregnant with you.”

He smiles with memories both sweet and bitter, but his only regret is that they didn’t dance more often. “You would kick sometimes, in her belly. She would laugh and say you were dancing too.”

Jennifer laughs at that, throwing her head back so that the peals echo through the air, momentarily drowning out the voice of the prewar crooner. The echoes bounce off the metal walls like caged birds. There is safety here, but there is an entire world outside that his daughter will never know. No matter how freely she dreams, she will remain bound by the labyrinthine twists of this place. Even now, he’s not entirely sure if Catherine would approve of his decision to seek asylum in Vault 101.

Their daughter laughs just like Catherine, with the entirety of her body. She might be gone, but as long as they can dance like this and keep her memory alive… his love will never be forgotten.

“You were dancing this song even before you were born.”

“ _Papa’s looking for mama_  
 _But mama is nowhere in sight (huh)”_

His heart is breaking, but he keeps his voice calm and strong. He has to be strong for his little girl, strong for both of them until she can stand and dance on her own.

“Happy birthday, sweetheart.”

**2) Friend**

“Happy birthday, Nosebleed,” Butch grunts, passing the seventeen year old girl a small package, barely more than a twist of brown paper wrapped around something small. Or several somethings, as she unwraps it with a squeal of delight.

“Bobby pins! You know just what a girl likes!”

Butch’s face cracks into a smug grin even as he shakes his head dismissively. “There’s a ribbon in there too, for that rat’s nest you call a ‘do.”

She sticks her tongue out, practically dancing in place as she haphazardly sticks some of the bobby pins into her hair.

“Hey now!” he protests, slapping her hands and pulling the pins right back out. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing, Jinx?” The nickname slips easily from his lips, and the little bad-luck name seems more real to him now than Jennifer.

“Wearing pins, duh.”

“Well, fuck that noise,” he growls. “Sit your ass down and I’ll teach you to do your hair right. Shit, if you’d use ‘em for more than just picking locks…”

She laughs at him, sitting down in a chair and drumming her heels against the floor as he pulls out a comb. While he’d punch her or anyone else if they call him a fuckin’ _hairdresser_ , he likes messing with her hair; girl might be scrawny and flat as a board, but her hair’s nice. Thick and shiny, with just a little bit of curl that he bets would look real good if she ever used any of the styling products he gives her. It’s a nice color too, dark with little red bits under bright light. But it’s a fucking shame she won’t ever do anything with it except tie it back in a knot or—rarely—braid it over one shoulder.

“Easier than carrying the maintenance keys around all the time.”

“Yeah, yeah. Whatever.” Once he works out all the tangles, he starts twisting small loops of it back, brushing a tiny bit of hair serum over the edge to keep it smooth as he pins it around her face. When she starts fidgeting a little too much, her fingers tapping an unknown rhythm against her legs, he slaps her shoulder. “Hold still, or you’re gonna be even uglier than usual.”

“We can’t all look as good as you, Butchie.” The teasing sounds absent-minded, and she stares off into space. The silence makes him uneasy; normally when she goes all quiet, she’s thinking about something that bugs her. Even if she talks his ear off sometimes, there’s comfort in her chatter.

He ties the main bulk of her hair up high, teasing some of the smaller ringlets into shape. “So what’s eating you?”

Her voice is whisper-soft. “My mom died today.”

Frowning, Butch shifts uncomfortably as he finishes styling her hair. “Well… shit.” He knows the history, and thinks about how bad it must suck to know that your mama died to bring you into the world and even your daddy the doctor couldn’t save her. “Well, she ain’t all gone as long as you remember her, at least. Honor her memory.” Or something like that; he pulls the words out of some vague eulogy he remembers reading in class, but it seems to do the trick as Jinx’s face softens. She hops out of the chair, digging into a drawer and pulling out a thin, flat package that has been carefully wrapped. A single faded ribbon holds it together. Pulling the ribbon gently, reverentially, as thought it might crumble in her hands, she exposes an old record.

“Dad always says this was her favorite song. So let’s dance.” Her voice is just a little too bright, like a smile’s gonna armor up her heart against the world. She’s such a fucking kid sometimes, he worries she’s never gonna really grow up. But she’s also one of his best friends, even if he’d never admit it in front of the guys. So he takes her hands in his, her palms so small but with hard calluses from all the work she does with Stanley, crawling through vents and tightening bolts and rivets and shit that he don’t even know about. She fits against him like a glove, like belonging—and for a weird moment, it’s easy to forget that she’s Jinx. She feels just like any other girl would, soft and warm. His heart does a funny little flip in his chest.

“ _Papa loves mambo_  
 _Mama loves mambo_  
 _Havin’ their fling again_  
 _Younger than spring again_  
 _Feelin’ that zing again, wow (huh)”_

It’s still a good song; catchy, he gotta admit. But there are little hisses and pops in the record, tell-tale signs of the vinyl getting worn with years of dancing and playing. Jinx is gonna love this thing to death, if she hasn’t already.

“Y’know, I think I want to cut my hair. Do something wild and crazy with it for a change,” she says conversationally, as if zig-zagging from hair to dead parents and back to hair is completely normal. And just like that, the moment is shattered, and he goes from wondering when Jinx became so girly to feeling completely comfortable once more. She’s a brother to him, even if she doesn’t have a dick.

“Shit yeah. Wanna get a proper Tunnel Snake ‘do?” he asks, already feeling the itch of getting a pair of scissors and snipping away at that auburn mane.

“Nah. I’d rather shave it.” She twirls away, and damn if she can’t shake those bony hips. At least she has a great ass. “You know. Something that’d really freak out the Overseer and all the rest of the other people who are way too invested in the status quo. After all—“ And here her voice breaks, bitterness bubbling from beneath the cheerful façade. “—it’s far easier to change my hairstyle than the vault.”

“Hell no.” At her abrupt glare, he hastens to clarify. “I’m all for rebelling and overthrowing the system and shit. But for you? Going bald would make you look like a cue ball. Maybe just shave the sides, get a floppy Mohawk thing going.” Yeah, he can picture it now—she’d look good. Tough. Kinda crazy, but still able to smooth it down and look all smart and stuff whenever she’s gotta act like business. “Oh, and dye it. Red.”

She laughs now, grinning up at him like she’s stolen the last sweet roll. “You know, I think that’d look nice. Red like a Nuka-Cola machine. Neon bright and glow-in-the-dark.” Standing on her tip-toes, she gives him a quick squeeze as the last strains of the song die away. “Only problem is… my dad would never go for it.” Her voice is soft, wistful. Regretful. He twists uncomfortably at the longing in her voice, wondering what it must feel like to have a parent so invested in you that you hurt them by failing to live up to expectations.

But this is Jinx, and she’s never been above breaking the rules if they were stupid or silly or she could get away with it without _hurting_ anybody. Except if people found out; then the social pressure just becomes too awkward, crushing her like all the dirt and rock and steel separating them from the world above just came tumbling down.

“You gotta do what you gotta do. And you ain’t gonna be in your dad’s shadow forever.” Shit, ain’t that an irony—or maybe it’s fitting, that Amata’s so firmly under her dad’s thumb and Jinx is fighting so hard to live up to hers, like little goody-two-shoes Amata and Jinx bonded over mutual daddy issues.

“Well… yeah. I promise you this though,” she says, voice fervent and eyes blazing like blue fire. “As soon as I’m brave enough, I’m shaving it.”

He hopes it’s soon.

**3) Lover**

It’s her birthday, and she’s soft and beautiful. She’s always beautiful; whether hard and deadly, like an exotic serpent at home in the Wasteland, or laughing and bright, glittering like a jewel amidst the crumbling ruins of the prewar capital. But usually she’s guarded, all sharp edges and knife-like laughter to shield her vulnerability.

With him, tonight, she’s allowing herself to be free.

It’s more than just the dress she wears, even though it’s lovely; she often claims that wearing a skirt is like dressing in drag. It’s more than the curls she’s styled through her half-shaved ridge of hair, even though those are lovely too; she normally keeps her hair flattened back or tucked behind her ears, too impatient to bother with caring for it. And it’s more than the way she spins against him, thighs brushing his and lips pressed against his hand and drifting upward, as if ready to climb him like a ladder...

It’s all of those, but it’s also the fact that she’s wearing no weapons. She has nothing to shield her now except a thin layer of prewar cotton over her skin. She is soft, exposed and vulnerable. He wants to hold her close and breathe her in, wafting her essence down to the core of him. Their bodies fit together like skin, wearing one another to cover the patchwork remnants of old scars and nightmares.

_“(Papa loves mambo)_  
 _Mambo Papa_  
 _(Mama loves mambo)_  
 _Mambo Mama”_

“Brings back memories, Fawkes,” she sighs, and he dips her gently, watching the tender line of her throat. He doesn’t know if a traditional mambo has any sort of dips, but she likes when he holds her like this, supporting her body with just one hand splayed under her back. “I’ve been dancing the mambo practically every birthday. Even in the womb, from what my dad said.”

She doesn’t talk about her father often, and it is a guarded silence of hollow pain and dry tears. But her voice is steady, almost thoughtful as she continues.

“He said this was my mother’s favorite song too. So… as long as I dance this, it remembers both of them.”

 “They both live through your blood and memory,” he says gently. He watches her spin out, dress twirling about her as she circles him. One spin; like a revolution, and he imagines her as she must have been as a child, still trusting the adults in her life to take care of everything.

She grins up at him, eyes moist and gleaming like stars. “Unfortunately, love is only as strong as memory.”

Leaning down to kiss her forehead, he murmurs, “Then we will remember them together.” She spins again, like the Earth about the sun, and he thinks about their friendship, and how she had saved him from his vault captivity.

“And make memories of our own,” she breathes, and now she stops dancing, reaching for him and pulling him into a hungry kiss. His hands slide under her skirt, bunching up the material and pressing her to the bed. Friends to lovers, and making more memories each day. Because if memories of love are all that bind them, he will make sure she never forgets.

“ _(Don’t let her rumba and don’t let her samba)_  
 _‘Cause Papa_  
 _Loves a mambo tonight!”_


End file.
